


Everybody Knows but You

by writer_zo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam is baby, Anathema is a real actual witch and also maybe psychiatrist, And an author, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eldritch Aziraphale, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Freddie Mercury is a GHOST, He's going wild, I'm Sorry, I'm projecting my writer's block onto Anathema, M/M, Mutual Pining, There's background AnatheNewt but I made it VERY background because... she's too good, everyone can tell they're in love except for them...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-04-12 06:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writer_zo/pseuds/writer_zo
Summary: Everyone seems to believe that Crowley and Aziraphale are in love. Everyone, however, has to be wrong, because (as Crowley knows) an angel could never love a demon and (as Aziraphale knows) a demon could never love an angel.





	1. Nightmares and Daydreams

**Author's Note:**

> I've loved this book (and now T.V. show) since I was but a little creature, scuttling through the library like a benevolent gremlin. If you aren't here to read a lovey-dovey tender melting pot of a story, you ought to leave now.

“Alright.” Anathema set her cup of tea to the side, steepling her fingers in front of her face. “What’s the issue, A.J.?”

Anathema, he had decided early on, would be the only person who could call him A.J. She’d used it from the moment they became more than driver and pedestrian, the moment that the Dark Lord took a dive back through the pavement and she turned to make his acquaintance. He didn’t even think he’d given her his name, unless his memory was fuzzy: she’d just turned to him, swept her hair over her shoulder, and said, “Hello, my name is Anathema Device, and you’re the demon A.J. Crowley, if Agnes had any clue.”

He’d liked her--or, at least, respected and perhaps even slightly feared her--ever since. She was a mortal, but a blessed clever one, and for that, she and she alone could call him by that nickname. 

The Occultist was also perceptive enough to notice when Crowley was at the end of his tether.

“So this is why you called me in? An intervention?” He laughed, tracing sigils on her table with a finger. “You think I’ve gone off the deep end.”

“I  _ think _ ,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “that you’ve been having dreams.”

Crowley snorted, as abruptly and loudly as possible, and by the look on her face, she’d guessed that she was exactly correct. He’d made the mistake of mentioning that he’d started to have real, human dreams just a month ago, when he’d come across Anathema at a little cafe populated by friendly-if-slightly pretentious wannabe writers, one he stopped in exclusively because they were willing to put as many espresso shots as you wanted into a drink without batting an eye. 

And now, because of an insignificant little boast he’d made just weeks before, she’d pinned his problems down like a butterfly to a tackboard. Seeing the flash of sharpness behind her eyes, he relented, throwing his hands into the air and slumping back into the seat.

“So maybe I am,” he said, removing his sunglasses in the dim of the room. “What’s it to you? I’m fine.”

“No. You’re the opposite of fine.” She smiles, tight-lipped, at him, challenging him to say anything else. Anything to discredit her. Damn, she’s good. He doesn’t think she’s the type to have kids--and Newt’s a hazard to humanity on his own--but she’d be an  _ excellent _ mother. Raise some real angels. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a semi-metaphysical spirit look so trashy.”

“Ah, thank you, Doctor Device. I’m cured.” Crowley tipped his chair back on its hind legs, rocking back and forth to keep the visions of the previous night’s dream away. He couldn’t have those rushing back. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not on any blasted day this side of Armageddon.

“I’m being serious. You’re two mean looks from collapsing.” She flicked a compact mirror from her pocket. It caught the light of the window, sending a watery sunbeam into his eyes and making his pupils tense and thin into vertical lines. After a moment of blinking and haze, he finally got a good look at himself.

The gold parts of the eyes, as usual, were just fine, other that the fact that they were around 98% iris at the moment. The  _ under _ eyes, however, had hollowed and worn into a faded shade of purple, and the hollows below his cheekbones had graduated from divots to valleys. His entire complexion was pallid and wan, far more than even some demons he’d known, and the bandage over the bridge of his nose did precisely nothing to hide the bruise on top of it.

“Seems to be holding together,” Crowley said, spreading his hands to indicate his body. “I haven’t discorporated yet.”

“But you  _ have _ started drinking a lot more coffee,” she said, flicking out a notepad. He glanced down at it, face stony to hide bemusement. 

“I was working on a research project* there,” Anathema said, tapping the pad, “from 9 in the morning to 7 in the evening. And do you know what I found, A.J?”

“Boredom. Literary critics. The soul of the java bean.” Crowley guessed, uninterested.

“I  _ found _ ,” she said, “that you kept visiting. Over and over. Beanie’s Coffee is good, yes, but not  _ unimaginably _ good. Not stopped-in-twenty-eight-times good.” She pointed to the tallies on her notepad. “You’re trying to distract yourself. Get your corporeal form’s heart rate up, forget whatever you’ve been cooking up in your subconscious.”

“Lisssten,” he hissed, “I. Am. Fine. I go there because I do, in fact, like the taste. That day was just strange. You might even have lost track--”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ miracle away some of my tally marks.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Yes, you would.”

“You’re right.”

“A.J., Beanie’s serves college students and artists. They’re used to serving people who want strong caffeine.” Anathema folded her arms. “But when you ordered  _ sixteen _ shots in one cup, I saw fear in the barista’s eyes. Primal fear.”

“I’m a demon! I’m supposed to invoke fear! Besides, that’s not even my record.”

“That’s terrible. And not the point.” Anathema flipped the pad back into her pocket. “You’re terrified of facing your dreams, whatever they are. Are they about Armageddon? Death? I know I--”

“Alright, alright. You trick me into coming here, you turn it into therapy, you catch me like a snake in a snare having dreams about Aziraphale. Do you have any medication to prescribe, or are you just going to psychoanalyze me all day?”

Anathema stared. She stared some more. After one particularly baffled stare, Crowley realized what he’d said--realized what he’d said and kicked himself under the chair.

“Dreams… about Aziraphale.” Anathema raised an eyebrow.

Crowley stood up from the chair, pointing a finger, brandishing it with all the furor and ire of Shadwell at his finest. “Anathema,” he said, invoking her name like a curse. “If you breathe one word of this to him, I’ll--I’ll--”

She placed a hand on top of his finger, lowering it from her chest in one motion.

“Judging by your… reaction… I’m going to guess that these dreams about Aziraphale are frequent,” she said, putting a pin in the butterfly once more. “And they might betray something about you that you want to keep hidden. Something human?”

Crowley gawked at her one final time, then shoved his glasses on, stepping back from the table.

“Not a word. Not a  _ sound _ to him.” Crowley said, leaving her cottage in a swoop of black jacket and demonic ire.

He met Newt on the way out, as the young man dragged a box of spare computer parts into the house with more tenacity than strength. The man pushed a snarl of dark hair from his eyes and waved, balancing his box on one knee in the process.

“Hullo, Mr. Crow--” Newt started. He stopped when he saw the look on Crowley’s face. 

“Everything okay?” He asked, looking rather sheepish and small--as usual, for Newt.

Crowley rocked back on his heels, hands clenched in his pockets.

“Heavenly,” Crowley spat, stepping into his car and heading toward Beanie’s with takeoff that could’ve burned through any other car’s tires.

He wasn’t going to do anything about the dreams. He was a demon, and he was going to go do enough shots of espresso to kill a lion.

\---

Aziraphale could throw bread like  _ nobody’s _ business. 

The ducks were mostly after the best  _ flavors _ of bread, but a good spiral right into the beak was a solid second to a mouthful of the Russian attache’s best. At the moment, he was giving a much-needed lesson to Adam, whose parents were chatting together off to the side about how strange and dreary it was in London. Aziraphale was inclined to agree--Tadfield, where Crowley had set off early that morning for reasons unknown--had spoiled him when it came to weather, with the kind of bright crisp autumns mentioned only in storybooks.

London, today, was as dull as a coin worn half to dust in the gutter. This did not stop the appetite of its ducks. Neither God nor man could stop the appetite of London’s ducks.

“You’re going to want to flick the  _ wrist _ if you want it to go to their mouths,” Aziraphale admonished him gently, displaying the motion as a mallard leapt to snatch a bite. “The whole arm, and it’ll just drop right into the water.”

“You feed a lot of them?” Adam asked, missing wildly and bouncing a piece right off a duckling’s head.

“Oh, my boy, we--that is, Crowley and I--feed all of them. We can spend whole afternoons here, if they aren’t so ravenous that they tear through our stock in minutes.” Aziraphale’s mind momentarily flicked back to December, 1956, on a day when a certain duck had had to be gently pried from its death-grip on Crowley’s leg, with much swearing on the part of the demon. The angel wiped the smile from his face and tore off another piece.

“That sounds great. Can’t wait to be an adult, doing stuff like that all day.” Adam finally managed to get a perfect shot to one, and smiled as the bird made a grateful wheezing sound through the crumb.

“Well, it’s not just fun,” Aziraphale sighed, glancing up to the woolen thatch of the clouds above. “Some people are going to like to breathe down your neck. You just have to know when to keep your head up, and… well, you have to rely on people you trust very dearly and nearly to you.”

He gave Adam a smile he thought quite wise and important, one that froze in the face of Adam’s boyish disinterest in anything close to wise and important. Adam looked down at the piece of bread in his hand, then back to the water, then took a quick bite from the bread, tossing it before Aziraphale could say anything to stop him. The bread hit the water--the shot had been all arm.

“Seems like it’s not  _ all _ wrist.” Adam said, pouting. 

Aziraphale pointedly made a perfect shot, trying to influence the boy to the correct technique, but Adam had lost all interest in bread. He was watching Dog, whose leash he’d had to give to his father, and who was attempting to strain against his leash toward the mocking mass of ducks that preened and quacked just out of reach.

“Well, it may  _ seem _ like it’s not all wrist, and, well, in a sense you’re right, but the wrist movement is--”

“Does your husband do well at this?”

“Yes. Crowley actually taught me how to throw.” Aziraphale thought fondly of that time when Crowley had stepped behind him to guide his wrist, had laughed at the first few failed attempts and grinned like a proud maniac the first time Aziraphale had gotten it right.

It took another moment--one throat-punch of a moment--for him to realize what Adam had said.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, forcing a smile as best he could. “What did you call him?”

“Your husband. I have to go.” Adam started to move away, toward Dog, who had nearly gone mad with fury over the undisturbed state of the ducks and was yapping up a storm. Aziraphale stopped Adam with a hand on his shoulder, trying to think, to function normally.

“Adam,” he said, “You know we… we aren’t married, right?”

The boy turned to look up at him, brow furrowing in confusion. “You aren’t?” he said, glancing back to his dog. “So… you’re boyfriends, then?”

“No!” Aziraphale said, quickly lowering his voice. “No. No, no, we are an angel, and a demon.”  _ And the fact that I think he’s the best person, angel, or demon I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing doesn’t change that. _

Adam was looking at him in a strange, sad way, the sort of way you’d look at a half-deflated balloon or a stray cat in a rainstorm. Aziraphale swallowed, looking away, feeling not very wise or important or big at all under the gaze of Adam.

“So… you’re friends.” The boy said, dubiously.

“...yes.” Aziraphale said, releasing Adam. “I don’t know how you got any other impression.”

Had Aziraphale been looking at Adam, he would have seen a look of pure amusement--masked lightly by incredulity--cross Adam’s face, and stay there as Adam threw a final piece of bread right into the waiting maw of a goose. 

“Alright then,” Adam said, folding his arms. “Goodbye, Mr. Fell. I’m going to ask my dad if I can have some ice cream.”

“What? Oh, that sounds lovely, Adam,” Aziraphale said, waving goodbye without even looking in his direction. “You have… er… good day.”

Adam ran off to ruffle Dog’s ears, leaving Aziraphale standing on the bank, staring across the surface of the water. He didn’t notice that a duck had launched a ferocious attack on his ankle until half an hour had passed.

  
  
  


*Anathema’s research project had been something she called “Can I Get a Damned Idea for a Novel Already,” but had quickly morphed into “How many times does Crowley come into this establishment?” The break from trying to write the greatest novel to ever be conceived had been both welcome and, according to Anathema’s conscious,  _ completely  _ necessary.

 


	2. One Long Queen Playlist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has another terribly disturbing dream. He yells at Freddie Mercury for several minutes to make up for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm winging this fanfiction so much right now. Get it? Winging?  
> I put Freddie Mercury's ghost in this fic for reasons I like to call "I'm the author" and "deal with it."

_“Crowley, you’ve saved me!”_

_“Well,” Crowley said, putting one hand on Aziraphale’s face and the other around his back. “I really think you’d have been used to it by now.”_

_“Oh, but I’m not. I want you to save me again and again, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, his eyes alight with the soft glow of a star just before morning. “I want you to be there. Forever.”_

_“Oh, I’ll be there forever.” Crowley dipped his angel, flush with the thrill of coming to his rescue yet again, yet again, and they were so close. “Aziraphale, I l--”_

GUNPOWDER! GELATIN!

The buzzing cry of the alarm clock should come from just beyond Crowley’s head. The alarm clock, at one time, had been a random collection of even, bright clicks and beeps, but the Bentley’s influence had an overall effect on the rest of his flat. Even the oven seemed to play a tinny-tone rendition “Don’t Stop Me Now” on particularly bright days.

The alarm was actually quite far away from him, due to the fact that he’d somehow found his way to the ceiling, along with a blanket he’d wrapped around himself while kicking about. Having the dream ripped away so suddenly must have done something to unsettle him, because the blanket suddenly felt very heavy, and very downy, and just enough to pull him eleven feet back down to his bed with a fwump. _Shit._

He’d taken a liking to sleeping quite a while ago, and it had become the sort of habit he couldn’t kick, no matter how many Beanie’s employees he traumatized and no matter how many shots of espresso went down his throat. Everything had been going _perfectly_ well until just after Armageddon, when all of his brief ideas that went along the lines of “Being this close feels nice, even though I’m objectively threatening him,” and “I should really stop trying to get a whiff of whatever cologne he’s using” took up residence in his subconscious, where they multiplied and built into full-on dreams and what Anathema clearly thought was some kind of cutesy boyish _crush_.

Damn it. Bless it. Who was he kidding? It was a crush, a dopey, slow sort of crush, and it had been building like moss on a smooth stone since the Roman Republic. He was an idiot. And he was Aziraphale’s idiot.

“Angel,” Crowley murmured into the comforter. “Angel, angel, angel. Shit, shit, shit.”

He let himself--for less than a moment--imagine that Aziraphale was next to him, warm and safe and asking _“Oh, my dear, what’s wrong now?”_ Then Crowley picked up the closest pillow and threw it into the wall with enough force to make it explode.

It took him another hour of self-pitying reverie to actually get him to stand up, to face himself in the mirror, to wade through the down and fluff left behind by his best pillow and stare himself down in a mirror. Anathema was right again. He looked like Hell on a good day, and Hell on a good day was Earth on the worst days of its life. He could miracle everything away, sure, but Hell would take note, and he wasn’t keen to piss them off into giving him another dunk in the holy water.

Crowley managed to leave his room after what felt like the 14th century distilled, slouching toward the kitchen, a rough beast searching for cereal. He almost poured wine into his cereal before he realized that the milk was still in the fridge, the cereal was still in the cupboard, and _Well, look at that, this isn’t cereal, this is a whole bowl of plant fertilizer._ The real cereal tasted cloying, saccharine, as though it were mocking his gloom. He forced three bites down, then tossed the bowl into the sink.

He didn’t _need_ to eat. It was a habit he’d gotten into in the Roman Republic, one just as long and unbreakable as sleep. But today--today he wasn’t taking any. Crowley was going to the Beanie’s in Tadfield, the quaint place that would give you enough caffeine to blow your brains out, and then he was going to take the Bentley through the entire countryside as fast as he could go.

“If you drove fast enough, you might be able to get the image of that _floating blond hair_ out of your mind.” said a completely new yet utterly familiar voice.

Crowley froze, still in the middle of wiping his hands of the two failed attempts at breakfast, and turned slowly to face the radio.

It should have been off. He hadn’t been listening to anything--he didn’t want another love song coming on, sure as Heaven not at a time like this--and he didn’t take orders from Hell any more. The soft, deep pit of the voice on the radio was teasing, weighty, and all-too-familiar.

“ _Mercury_?” He asked, lifting his sunglasses up.

“Yes, you guessed it.” Freddie Mercury’s voice played through the radio, unfiltered and pure. “And it’s the real me this time, not just my lingering presence in your Bentley.”

“Mercury!” Crowley said, groaning and leaning against his hand. “Bless it. How’re you even talking to me? In person, I mean. Or, in voice. In… radio-wave.”

“Well, the deal I cut with you seems to have worked out well,” Mercury said. Crowley could hear someone laughing in the background of the radio, someone in whatever room of Hell the late and great singer was staying in. “Hell’s been pretty nice to me as of late. Thought I’d check on you.”

“Congratulations. You picked a wonderful time to drop in.” Crowley let his head thunk to the table. “Mind calling later? I’m sick.”

“Do you think I’m going to let my brilliant bastard of a friend drink himself to death today?” Freddie asked, “Far from it. I know exactly what’s troubling you.”

“I’m ss _sick_ ,” Crowley spat, tongue flicking from between his teeth. Had anyone but Mercury’s disembodied voice been around to witness it, they would have seen it flicker for a moment, as though forked, twisting about, before solidifying into a human tongue again.

“Sick’s right,” Freddie said, and Crowley could practically feel the man’s pitying eyes on him. “Lovesick. For the blonde. Didn’t think he’d be your type!”  
“He’s not my type! He’s Angel! We’re on our own side, but he’s still a bloody angel.” The demon kicked the leg of the table and stood, pushing the chair back so quickly that it clattered to the floor. “Why are you popping up to tell me now?”

“Because I care, I really do!” Freddie said, defensive. “Without you, I might never have met the boys in the band. Never have gotten up the nerve to sing. And think, if I’d met another demon that night, I wouldn’t have gotten nearly as much out of the whole thing.”

“That’s lovely. Make me feel N-I-C-E, why don’t you?” Crowley asked, pacing the room. “There’s nothing to worry about. I have a body, and it’s under the weather.”

“Alright,” Freddie said, “that’s good to hear. You’re much too pretty for him, anyway.”

Crowley paused mid-pace, doing an admirable job of stilling his leg in the air, and turned to face the radio. As though it were really Freddie, and not just a glorified phone line from the below.

“What?” He managed.

“You’re well-kept. With the times. Handsome, really--if you starred in a good show, you’d have loads of admirers. Your friend’s a bit… last-hundred-years, hmm?”

“What,” Crowley repeated, “the Hel--Heav-- _bleh_ are you talking about? Angel? _My_ angel, not enough of a catch for good ol’ Anthony. Have you _met_ him?”

Crowley pointed an accusing finger at the radio and went on. “He’s the best parts of the sky and the earth rolled into one. And you think _I’m_ too good for him? Why would you say I’m _prettier_ than him? I’ve lived here for six thousand years of human life and I have never, ever met someone prettier inside and out and--”

The radio was still quiet. Crowley dropped his finger.

“--and that was on purpose, wasn’t it.” Crowley’s face dropped.

“Yes, darling, you’re on the money.” Freddie replied, in a voice that felt like a pat on the head. “And I’m serious when I say that you have _got_ to do something about this. Get it out in the open. Take it as life advice when I say you look like pure and utter--”

“Anathema told me,” Crowley said, head still reeling.

“There you go. A wise woman,” Freddie said. “I have to go now. Hellhound pup to attend to.”

“Ciao.” Crowley said, slumping down to sit on the floor.

“Tell the pretty angel,” Freddie finished, and the radio buzzed into nothingness again.

Crowley watched it as its display flickered out. He almost-- _almost_ \--thought up a prayer about the whole thing. Then he flopped onto his back and yelled at the ceiling for a while.

Crowley did not, in fact, decide to tell Aziraphale. But he did decide to shower. And he mostly resisted the urge to pretend that the water was holy water, burning him into nothingness, while in said shower. He could’ve done _one_ miracle to clean himself up a bit, get rid of the wear and tear of being a poor unloved son-of-Hell, but there was something healing in the way the water felt. Something good.

He was, naturally, unenthused when he was interrupted by a knock on the door of his flat.

“Just a minute!” He yelled, cranking up the heat of the shower. It reminded him of the fire. The fire he’d felt when he was in Aziraphale’s skin, taking abuse from Gabriel and fighting the urge to throw a solid right hook into the smug arch-idiot’s stupid, punchable face. He smiled at the memory. _Angel made Michael miracle him a towel._

The knocking got louder. And louder. And louder again.

“FINE!” Crowley snapped, wrenching the knob so hard that the handle went off along with the water. “Fine, fine, fine.”

He grabbed a silk bathrobe*, one that had been around since the 80s but he’d hardly used, and stormed to the door. He’d paid the damn bills, all of them. If this was anything but a wizard who would be happy to hand him a key to an angel’s heart and shout “Congratulations! You don’t have to swallow twenty cups of coffee a day anymore!” Crowley was going to lose his cool.

Crowley stalked down the hall, his yet-undried hair still dripping and spattering against the ground, and tore open the door, the vision of a Fury, of a monster roused from an enchanted sleep ready to ravage the world.

He stopped, mid-terrifying entrance, and used his miracle to make some clothing appear, _fast_. His usual stuff. The hair took another--Hell would definitely note that. He didn’t find himself excited to think of Beelzebub noticing prettifying miracles coming from the holy-water-miracle-demon.

The person at the door was Aziraphale, looking very flush and very worried, and making Crowley feel _very_ terrible.

“My _dear_ ,” Aziraphale said, opening and closing his mouth like a gasping fish. “You should really answer your phone.”

 

 

 

 

* The robe, as a matter of fact, had been a gift of Freddie Mercury's. The card given alongside it had said "To Anthony--consider letting me take a ride in that Bentley sometime." It still contains Mercury's exact smell.


	3. Nightingale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes care of a grouchy demon, and a new challenger appears. A nightingale sings in Tadfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere, Freddie Mercury is petting a cat and looking smug. This chapter comes out to about 4400 words, and I had to kill my firstborn to finish it. You're welcome.

There was Aziraphale, standing on the doorstep. And there was Crowley, hair dripping, eyes wide and strange and bare in the morning light, wearing a black silk robe that Aziraphale really wished he’d seen before.

And then the door slammed, only for a moment, and re-opened, and Aziraphale wrenched himself out of his stupor at the same breakneck speed of Crowley’s miracle. His friend was wearing his usual loose suit-top again, his hair was dry, and the memory of his wild hair and shower-hot glow was slammed into the darkest corner of Aziraphale’s mind where it hissed to him, tempting and ruby-red.

“My  _ dear _ ,” said Aziraphale, trying not to faint, “you should  _ really _ answer your phone.”

The demon raised his eyebrows, tilting his head and leaning against the doorframe, as though he  _ hadn’t _ just given Aziraphale utter radio silence for nearly a week. That, combined with a call from Anathema telling him to keep an eye on the bastard, had nearly driven him mad with worry. Was Crowley really going to act like nothing was wrong at all?

“Well, considering that you can drop in any time you like-- _ including _ during a shower,” Crowley said, folding his arms, “I’d say it’s not really something to get frantic about.”

So, that was how they were playing it.

Aziraphale barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes (one of Crowley’s habits, one that had rubbed off on him) and studied the demon’s face. His eyes passed from the wan complexion, visible under the pinkness the shower lent, to the shadows under the cheeks, up to the sunglasses, which no doubt hid under-eye bags to rival Hastur’s. It took another moment for him to realize that he’d been stammering, and that he was going to need to talk,  _ now. _

“I-I was just worried about you, and I’m coming in. You don’t look well. I would know.” Aziraphale stammered, kicking himself for how rude and boorish everything seemed to sound. “Stop giving me that look and  _ tell _ me what’s wrong, Crowley. Or I’m not leaving.”

“Angel,” Crowley said. Aziraphale’s heart hung from a thread for a moment before he managed to gather himself. “Angel, I am fine. Just fine. You can come in, though, if you’d like. You’re my friend.”

Why the ache in that last sentence? Could it-- _ no. _ Aziraphale shoved any thoughts  _ like that _ into the Dark Corner, otherwise known as the “He’s-a-demon” corner. Crowley moved aside slowly, bowing to let him in, and Aziraphale huffed at his friend’s nonchalant attitude as he entered.

The flat looked like an ordinary (albeit fairly well-off) Londoner’s flat, which was a very bad sign. A bit of plant fertilizer had spilled onto the floor, magazines were spread over the coffee table in waves and crests, and the vibrations created by the slamming door caused a pillow to fall off the couch. The whole place felt  _ lived-in _ , instead of like a strange and sacred place cleaned of any spot. Crowley brushed past him to fall onto the couch, one arm flopping over the back in a display of nonchalance that almost looked forced.

“Alright. Diagnose me.” Crowley readjusted his sunglasses, slowly, not looking at Aziraphale. “Then give me a lollipop and send me on my way, Doctor.”

“Crowley--” he started to cross over to the demon, irritable and rather upset that his friend was acting like this.

“Or maybe a warm cup of tea and a hearty breakfast. A cup of coffee, even.”

“Crowley, I hardly think--”

“ADVIL! That’s what they call it. Advil and tylenol and ibuprofen, all did their own part in kicking Pestilence out of the horsemen. Give me--”

“Anthony!”

Crowley finally,  _ blessedly _ stopped talking, and Aziraphale realized that he had just called his friend by a name he told himself he wouldn’t even think about any more, not when it was always attached to  _ “I love you, Anthony,”  _ in his lonelier thoughts. He used the silence to take off Crowley’s sunglasses, to really  _ look _ at him, and his heart twinged when he saw the wear and tear on his friend’s face.

“Hey, now,” Crowley said, grabbing for them feebly, then letting his hand fall slowly to the couch. “That isn’t fair.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, slipping the glasses into his pocket. “It may not be fair, but it’s right.”

“Shut up,” Crowley groaned, allowing Aziraphale to inspect him. The hair looked alright, at least, thanks to the shower, and a good lunch and a night’s sleep would take the wear out of the body without needing a miracle. He’d been taking better care of his own body, lately, what with Heaven looking very unkindly on random miracles from the both of them.

“Well, you’re going to have to sleep more,” Az said. “And I think a good lunch would rouse you.”

Crowley flinched, eyes darting away before landing back on him with a strange sense of resignation. Aziraphale held a hand to his forehead--it felt normal enough--and then stepped back, motioning him to get up.

“What? Get up? Why?” Crowley asked, holding his hands up in bemusement.

“Your wings, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, as though that were clear from the start. “Have you been taking any care of your wings?”

The redhead’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened and stayed there, trying to form some kind of witty retort or comeback, something slithering up his throat to die on his tongue. He sighed, deeply, throwing his head back, and then hopped to his feet, turning to point his back toward Aziraphale. Azirapahle stepped out of the way quickly as the two great black wings sprang from Crowley’s shoulder blades, fluttering briefly in the draft that they created.

Aziraphale blinked the wind from his eyes to stare at them, and put a hand to his mouth. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, your wings aren’t a walk in the park either!” Crowley snapped, embarrassed.

“Yes, but… my  _ dear _ …” Aziraphale reached out to touch one, and Crowley tensed. 

Angel wings, it was true,  _ did _ tend to be a little fluffier and more “disorganized” than demon wings, due to the pressing issues that left little time for cleaning and due to the fact that, in Hell, demons would pull out each others’ loose feathers in the hallways as a form of joke. For as long as he’d known Crowley, the demon’s wings had been immaculate, black as pitch and the texture of soft charcoal layered on onyx wiring. 

They were, at this point, a horror show.*

Tufts had come loose, and dead feathers weighted the tips of the wings so that they sagged and drooped to the floor. If the horse-person Pollution had wings, these would be them. Aziraphale found himself running his hands over them, trying to get a sense of what was on Crowley’s mind through touch. They were battered, yes, but they were still warm. Still alive and connected to Crowley.

“Angel,” Crowley said, his voice strained, with a rasp on the end that made Aziraphale swallow hard. “I’m fine. I don’t use them.”

“Well, I--I’m not just going to let you do this to yourself!” Aziraphale said, pulling his hands away. Crowley stumbled back, slightly--he’d been leaning on Aziraphale for support. The angel shut his eyes, willing  _ somebody _ to give him strength, and grabbed Crowley by the hand** to pull him back over to the couch, where he pushed him into a sitting position.

“I--” Crowley looked nervous. He had to know what was coming.

“No. Sit still. I’m going to fix this for your sake and mine.” Aziraphale said, his stern facade crumbling under the ache he had for his friend. “I don’t know what’s happening to you, and I don’t need to. I’m going to help you.”

The demon turned back to him, looking over his shoulder for just a moment, then smiled, perhaps at his own stubbornness, perhaps because the angel looked so very nice and he was still very tired.

“My hero. Alright, then, let’s get a wiggle on.” Crowley said. Aziraphale cringed.

“Don’t bring that up ever again.” Aziraphale said. “I was under a great amount of stress that day.”

“Aww, you’re a little embarrassed about the-- _ oww _ .” The first loose feather came out of Crowley’s back with a small pluck. Aziraphale blushed.

“Sorry! Most are so loose, they should be painless.” Aziraphale said, moving up to the shoulderblades. He plucked the feathers away quickly, in case they did sting, feeling how Crowley jumped against him whenever one stuck a bit. He could smell the demon at this proximity, the scent of low embers and something close to fern and rosemary. One hand strayed to touch the nape of Crowley’s neck.

This was the closest he’d ever get again. It could be, at least.

“...something wrong?” The demon asked, quietly.

“No!” Aziraphale said, pulling his hand away as though burned. He meant to lie, to say something about stray hair, but nothing came out of his mouth or the demon’s, and he went back to work.

It took him around 30 minutes, and he concentrated intensely on the task at hand to keep himself from making any other ridiculous mistakes. Ridiculous mistakes like the one earlier.

After finishing, he dusted his hands and stared at the plain of black feathers around them, at the immaculate wings before his hands. The wings twitched, then Crowley moved forward, running a hand over one’s edge.

“All done?” He asked.

“Why, yes I am. They look lovely. Do you have a broom?” Aziraphale asked.

“I’ll take care of it,” Crowley said, quickly and quietly. The angel’s mouth felt dry--had he overstepped something? Something in the way he took Crowley’s hand so quickly, or his fingers on his friend’s neck.

“Well!” Crowley said, much more brightly. “I’m feeling better already. You’re good at this.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Aziraphale said, “I’m sure this will be alright. Consider seeking help for whatever you’re feeling, Cr--”

“No,” Crowley said, “I’m fine, really. Just down in the dumps, you know how it is. Want to go for sushi?”

“I think,” Aziraphale said, “you’re supposed to say you’re  _ tempting  _ me.”

“I don’t think any tempting is necessary.”

“You’re right, of course.”

\---

Evening that day fell fast. Someone in the above seemed to have dropped the blanket of night over the world without pause, pulling the fitted black sheet tight over the sky with the speed of a five-star hotel’s room service. 

Spending time with Aziraphale had, despite initial trepidation, actually done a lot to settle his mind. The angel had been practically  _ glowing _ with delight at the restaurant, and had nearly talked his ear off about a rare book, and all had seemed right with the world.

They wouldn’t be together  _ like that _ . That much was obvious. The ache in his chest had settled around his heart like a serpent, and he was just going to let it lie there. Let it lie there as he’d let it lie for almost six thousand years.

He’d rather be a friend of Aziraphale’s than lose him. If he lost his angel, there wouldn’t be any side for him any more. Not on Earth, not in Hell. He couldn’t afford to lose him. But in this soft, quick evening--when he had decided to take a walk, to do something good and active and alive. Something human. Something repetitive that would make him think, eventually, that he’d be okay with being just a friend forever. Self-hypnosis.

_ “You go too fast for me, Crowley.” _

A sentence, said in the back of the car so many years ago, one that destroyed any hope he’d had. He’d known, always known, that he was a monster and Aziraphale was the definition of holy, but that sentence had sealed it, as much as he’d trie to deny it to himself. Perhaps it had been the ache in Aziraphale’s eyes when he said it. That pity. He couldn’t stand it.

Crowley turned into an alley, close to his flat. The ground had been strewn with refuse, food and scraps of paper and plastic making dry scraping sounds against his feet. His lip curled when his boot skidded on oily liquid, liquid that caught a faint flicker of light and spattered against his pant leg.

“Eurgh,” he murmured, feeling lower than whatever much was on his foot now. He slowed to a stop after the puddle, scraping his foot against the concrete to rid it of the liquid. It came off slowly, viscously, but without the immediate acrid scent of oil. Crowley looked down, baffled, and inhaled through his nose.

Copper. Copper and fishy scent. The lines of light that traced the edges of the puddle were glossy white, but the scent was all too familiar, all-too red and hackle-raising.

Human blood.

Crowley felt his pupils widen, taking in more of the light in the darkness, his hands flexing over a tire iron that wasn’t there. His mind searching for an angel who wasn’t there. He could only hope that his friend was nowhere in the area if something bad happened--if those close footsteps, the ones approaching from behind at this very moment, spelled  **trouble!** in bold letters.

“Crawly.”

The voice sounded like wood about to break, high and keening and mocking. He didn’t recognize it, but the tone made his lip curl back, as did the name. He turned to see a figure, the figure of what could have been a woman or a man or a deer walking about on its hind legs, judging by the strange, gaunt silhouette, shrouded by a long and grimy black coat and capped by a wide-brimmed hat. Crowley swallowed nothing and put his hands in his pockets.

“Do I know you?” He asked, narrowing his eyes, “Because I haven’t used that name in  _ many _ years, and I don’t think it’s something many of my friends call me anymore.”

“Oh?” asks the thing across from him--something that almost certainly came up from below. “Really. Must ‘ave the wrong person. I’m lookin’ for a spineless little snake that left us to go trade spit with the enemy.”

“Okay, first of all, we’re just--well, even if we were, that’s the worst way to describe it.” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Second, snakes are vertebrates, and third--”

“So it’s  _ you _ ,” the demon said, lifting its head to meet his. “It”  _ was _ , in fact, the proper term for this demon. It only seemed to have one eye that resembled anything human, the other one an empty socket packed to the brim with something like bismuth and bloodstone, which bubbled and spiked outward across the rest of his face in waves. The demon’s mouth, which unhinged like a moray’s each time in tried to enunciate a word, was dark with blood.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I’m really  _ Hell’s _ issue any more. We took care of that at an earlier date.” Crowley took a step back. It took a step toward him again.  _ Shit. _

“Pity you aren’t Hell’s issue,” it said, grinning with a mouth that wound almost to its ears. “Instead, you’re  _ Berith _ ’s.”

Crowley searched his mind for the name. He found nothing. It reminded him of the sort of name you’d find at an octogenarian bingo night--didn’t  _ quite _ match the 80 teeth or pus-dripping eye, but he was sure it would come eventually. 

The lack of recognition, apparently, was obvious to whoever the hell Berith was, and Crowley felt the air leave his lungs as a grimy fist slammed into his stomach. He wheezed, doubling over, and pushed himself back, serpent fangs lowering from the roof of his mouth.

“W--” A kick, this time, a hard one to the back of the knee. Sparks of pain shot across his face as he fell, colliding with the wall, a blow that might have knocked out the average person--someone who wasn’t made of demonic material.

“Found you by tha’ miracle you pulled,” Berith said. Crowley lurched up, swiping with a fist, and the demon batted it away and slammed him against the wall. Its voice was smug with pride and growled low, barely distinguishable from a crocodile. “You ‘member me now, Crawly? Hell’s finest. Bred from the stock of kings n’ executioners. Born for  _ war. _ ”

Crowley met its single eye, keeping his breath as steady as he could with Berith’s hand just below his sternum, pushing  _ up _ from underneath the bone. 

“So you’re angry I put a stopper in the apocalypse,” Crowley wheezed, “it’ll still happen. I just bought us a few years.”

A hand on his throat. His voice dried even as tears of exertion sprang to his eyes.

“I wan’ my war _now_ ,” it said, with the sort of wet voice you’d expect to hear from a rotting dog. “But since I can’t ge’ it, I’ll take my price in blood. You and your boyfriend’s.”

Crowley would have laughed, if his ribs didn’t feel twisted away from his spine. He was going to be discorporated. Sent to Hell, with no angel switcheroo to help him this time. And Aziraphale didn’t even know.

Aziraphale.  _ Aziraphale _ .

Crowley tried to shift, scales flickering over his arms, and screamed as stones tore from Berith’s skin and into his own, as the smile just in front of him widened. He was kicking, jerking like a hanged man in a noose, desperate if he had to die, he’d take Berith with him, because he’d be damned (more than he already was) if he was going to let this gaunt beast touch something as soft and kind as his angel. His vision was spotting out--he didn’t have much time.

_ “Crowley?” _

A hallucination. Shit, he was really close to biting it. He could’ve sworn he heard Aziraphale’s-- _ oh. No. _

Berith’s hand loosened from his throat just enough to let Crowley draw something in, to cough through the cuts on his skin and jerk his head to the side. Angel. Angel was there, looking baffled and soft and terrified. And vulnerable. Like a rabbit, standing stock-still before a wolf.

“Angel,” he coughed, as Berith’s hand squeezed tighter, “Angel,  _ run _ .”

“What are you doing with him?” Aziraphale said, hands clenching at his sides. Berith laughed, breath like the smell of a stagnant lake in a deep cave, and turned its dripping eye to the newcomer, amused.

“Perfect!” It hissed. “Thought I’d need to find you  _ after _ I bled this one’s life from its corp’real body. Chris’mas comes  _ early _ .”

Berith let Crowley go, sending the man to the ground and onto his side, where he rubbed a hand over his throat, lungs screaming,  _ head _ screaming. It took everything in his power to push himself up, but Az was in danger, Az didn’t know, Crowley was so stupid to never tell him, and now he might--

Berith looked over its shoulder, only once. “ _ Watch, _ ” it hissed.

Aziraphale should have been running. Crowley wanted to scream. This was madness--the angel trying to be a guardian angel. But Aziraphale’s face, though marred by terror, was hard. He was swallowing a lump in his throat as Berith tensed to charge him.

“C-Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, I want you to cover your eyes.”

“WHAT?!” Crowley shouted, in a voice so ragged it almost rivalled Berith’s. “You st--I’m not going to let you--”

Berith pivoted, slamming a foot into Crowley’s  chest one final time, and dropped onto all fours. Aziraphale just  _ stood there. _

He couldn’t close his eyes. He wanted to. He didn’t want to see this.

Aziraphale kept standing there, and Berith leapt, and then something great and terrible glowed.

\---

A brief interlude on the nature of angels.

While demons tend to keep their shape-changing to animals (being rather uncreative types) and mish-mashes of animal features, angels have a significantly different “standard” form. Before roughly the Roman Republic, many angels barely bothered to conceal their divine nature--meaning that humans that came across them got a great look at their seven eyes, many buzzing throats, and heads made of thousands of concentric rings that seemed to either fill your entire vision or become so thin that they passed between atoms. 

The Bible will tell you that, when the shepherds saw the miraculous chorus telling them of the birth of Jesus, the angels called “BE NOT AFRAID!” The Bible will  _ not _ tell you that Ezekiel, shepherd’s apprentice, immediately passed out upon seeing a man with the teeth of a lion and twelve arms, and had to be miracled back to wakefulness five times before it stuck.

In short, angels in their purest form are 1) holy, 2) blinding, and 3)  _ terrifying. _

\---

Berith brought itself up short and began to scream.

Crowley watched--could not  _ help _ but watch--as his angel, so soft and kind, reared into an eight-foot creature, twelve--no, seven--no, hundreds of eyes, no eyes, eyes with fire behind them and eyes that dribbled silver like tears. Crowley watched as its hand (one of its hands) grappled Berith, and then his eyes were blurring. His atoms scattered away from each other, just barely, prepared to discorporate.

He laid there for what felt like an eternity. What felt like lying in a pool of sulphur, watching Heaven spiral above you, knowing you did  _ something _ but not knowing what.

_ “Crowley?” _

That voice again. He kept his eyes shut. Tightly shut.

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale. Was it real? He didn’t know anymore. Aziraphale was many-eyed and Berith wasn’t speaking and he was lying on the ground, wondering when the end was coming.

“Anthony, please…”

A hand on his throat. A feeling of painless stitching, of soft skin on skin, and his eyes opened with a start. He could breathe again. He could breathe properly again, and Aziraphale was crouched over him, looking ordinary, looking human. 

“Angel…” Crowley laughed, shaking his head humorlessly. “Angel, where the heaven was  _ that  _ during the apocalypse?”

“Crowley, I--”

“Satan’s sake, that was--those eyes--you got Berith, yeah?” He asked, putting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, still lying down. The angel looked distressed, and Crowley awkwardly lifted a hand to touch his face. Tears. “Angel?”

“Crowley, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale blurted, shaking horribly. “I never thought I’d have to--I’ve never done that, ever. I didn’t want to. I don’t want you to be in trouble.”

“You saved me.” Crowley said, confused.

“I--it doesn’t--” Aziraphale stammered, lifting him to a sitting position. “I was just in the area, and I saw you, and I couldn’t let you die. You almost got  _ discorporated _ . If you went back to Hell, they could--”

“You saved me.” Crowley repeated, his mind like a broken record, caught on the angel’s face.

“--I never even told you about this! We’re supposed to be on our own side, and I didn’t--I just wanted to be like you, or, at least, like you are. You’re so free, Crowley. You’re so fast. You’re my best friend.”

“You don’t,” Crowley finally managed, “have anything to apologize for.”

He paused for a long moment, as Aziraphale struggled to say something, mouth half-open. He seemed so distraught that Crowley pulled them  _ both _ to their feet, put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, and kept on looking, inspecting every inch of Aziraphale’s face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Because  _ you saved my life _ , angel.” Crowley said, slowly. “You saved my life, and I never told you… the thing.”

“ _ What _ thing?” Aziraphale asked. “I didn’t tell you that I’m a many-eyed seraph, for somebody’s sake!”

“The thingy thing! The weird human thing!” Crowley might have been delirious, or he might have just had an epiphany. Perhaps both. “The thing about  _ you _ that’s been in development for about six thousand bloody years now.”

“Then  _ tell  _ me.” Aziraphale said, looking worried, face all too close.

Crowley tried to summon the words. Tried to explain everything from start to finish, from a wing over his head in the garden to the thermos of holy water to the way he felt when Aziraphale said “to the  _ world _ ” in a voice like blossoms settling on water.

“Ah, fuck it.” He said, and pressed into a kiss.

By all accounts, it should have ended after that. The angel should have pushed him off, told him sorry. Anything but pushing in, warm and wonderful, until Crowley was  _ forced _ to pull away because, miracle or not, he was still short of breath from the whole strangling business.

“...Anthony?” Aziraphale said, hair pushed back and eyes glassy with confusion.

“Yes,  _ Anthony, _ ” Crowley said. “I like that.”

“So you--you’re serious.” Aziraphale said, a smile breaking over his face. “You really do--”

“Yes! I love you, Angel! I have  _ literally _ been in love with you for a few thousand years now and I was going insane!”

“Are you  _ kidding _ me?” Aziraphale said, voice rising at the end. “I nearly fainted when you saved my books, Crowley, back in 1941. Do you remember that? Because that--”

“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe  _ me. _ I went on and on about our own side and--”

“It’s alright. I should have--”

“I should--”

“We--”

“You--”

“Alright. That’s it.” Aziraphale said, kissing him again. “We’re getting a place together, somewhere. We’re going to finally have a life together, and we’re  _ not _ going to be apart for a long time ever again, because there’s no way I’m letting you nearly get yourself killed again.”

“One demon attack erases the church where you fell in love with me?”

“Touche.”

“Or the French rescue? That caper?”

“Touche.”

“Or when Gabriel came around saying you could come back to Heaven, and I managed to make him leave you alone?”

“That was  _ you _ ?”

“All me.” Crowley grinned.

“Then thank you, and shut up.” Aziraphale said, and he pushed Crowley against the wall in a way that Crowley  _ didn’t _ mind and kissed him.

\---

In a house crowned by a singed horseshoe, one that smelled like cedar and the soft ivy that crawled up its sides, Anathema stopped reading to look out the window.

“Everything alright?” Newt asked, setting a bowl of soup in front of her. The steam curled and frayed into the air above, casting mist over the edge of her glasses. It smelled excellent, but she couldn’t quite focus. Something in her blood told her that something had  _ happened _ .

She looked out the window, which faced toward London and all the humanity it held, and she felt a smile grow on her face.

“Well, yes.” She said, lifting her spoon. “I think I heard a nightingale.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*It may be difficult to accurately convey how an angel or demon’s wings look when they’ve been allowed to grow extremely unkempt. So, instead, imagine that you find your crush wearing a hat, and they remove it to show you that they’ve managed to create an overgrown mullet down to their hips with a completely shaved top of the head. This is the equivalent of the damage done to Crowley’s wings, which never asked for this sort of shoddy treatment.

**Were you, in fact, some kind of reverse prophet who could see into the distant past, you might see a young woman by the name of Agnes Nutter lurch out of a vision to yell, “And they were soulmates!  _ Oh my god, they were soulmates. _ ”


End file.
